Two Weeks
by RainyDays-and-DayDreams
Summary: After returning from his three year absence, Sherlock and John's relationship has changed in a bad way. Now Sherlock has two weeks to convince John to stay with him, or risk losing his friend forever. Eventual Johnlock, Series 3 AU. ON HIATUS
1. Prologue: Day -1

**_A/N: So, this is a bit different from what I usually write, but I've had this idea in my head for a long time, and then Valentine's day rolled around, and I figured, well, my Valentine this year would probably like it. _**

**_So this is for you, my Valentine. You know who you are. _**

**_And as for the rest of you... I hope this doesn't suck too badly. I would like to remind you that this is un-beta'd, and I am American, so any Americanisms/typos/screw-ups of any sort are mine, and I apologize in advance._**

**_One last thing- this story is loosely based off the song Two Weeks by Grizzly Bear. I very highly recommend it, as it is gorgeous and perfect and beautiful._**

**_And onto the disclaimer!_**

**_DISCLAIMER: Ain't none of this is mine. Except, perhaps, the way I structure the words._**

* * *

_"Save up all the days_  
_A routine malaise_  
_Just like yesterday_  
_I told you I would stay"_

_- Grizzly Bear, "Two Weeks"_

* * *

It had been three years, two months, and six days since Sherlock Holmes fell from the roof of St. Bart's when Sherlock decided to reveal to Captain John Watson, MD, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, that he hadn't actually died, per say.

Or fallen, for that matter.

Sherlock had been sitting on the couch in the middle of John's new flat_ (small, couldn't afford anything else, filled with minimal personal possessions, so was unattached, depressing, Sherlock's fault, Sherlock's fault-)_ when John entered the sitting room.

And stared. And stared. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Hello, John," he offered.

John groaned and went back into the kitchen.

Sherlock hadn't been expecting this. A punch, perhaps. Very slight probability of John passing out. Maybe even him walking out. Not this... Resigned sadness.

"John?" he asked, as he followed him into the kitchen.

John continued to make himself a cup of tea, resolutely ignoring Sherlock.

Sherlock could tell that something was wrong. (Well, something was wrong. He'd left his best friend alone for three years.) So he said nothing, and continued to follow John around.

After about fifteen minutes, John had had enough of this. He turned around, slamming the book he'd been trying to read on the table.

"That's it," he said. "I've finally lost it, haven't I?"

Sherlock stared at him uncertainly. Then it hit him. Oh. John didn't think he was real.

_Oh, John. _

"I mean, granted," John added, voice taking on a slightly hysterical edge, "Your hair was never that short, and you never wore anything that casual, but I guess it's what I want to see." He closed his eyes, now more confused than anything. "Only I don't want to." He looked at Sherlock. "Please go away."

Sherlock was a self-diagnosed, high-functioning sociopath. He had divorced himself from his feelings at an early age. Caring was not an advantage, he decided, and his brother encouraged him. Sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. (Something he knew only too well- sentiment had been his downfall three years ago. Not that he'd take what he did back.)

That didn't mean he didn't have a heart, and it gave a funny little twist at the look of pain and sadness on John's face.

"John," he whispered. Tried to speak. Couldn't. Gulped._ Take a deep breath_, he coached himself. "John," he croaked, "I'm real."

"Yeah, right," John scoffed. "I'm pretty sure most hallucinations say that."

Sherlock examined his options. He could continue to argue with John, or...

He slowly went to stand next to John and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

John stiffened. Sherlock could practically hear the thoughts as they raced through John's brain.

"Sherlock," John said, breathless. He turned around. Slowly, he placed a hand on Sherlock's chest, then his wrist. Took his pulse.

Sherlock swallowed.

Then, blinding pain. _There's that punch,_ he thought, grinning to himself as he fell to the floor.

* * *

John was waiting when Sherlock awoke, and he had questions. Many of them.

Sherlock answered as best as he could. And when he was done, he looked at John, eyes silently asking him what he couldn't say out loud. Will you come with me? Back to Baker Street, to Mrs. Hudson, to late night chases and crime scenes and no sleep and the two of us against the rest of the world?

John sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was still processing this, this- whatever this was. He looked at Sherlock, and felt like he had aged fifty years in the span of an hour. Rage, sorrow... He felt it all. Tomorrow, his eyes said. Tomorrow we'll talk. For now...

Sherlock got the message. He smiled a little sadly and left the flat, heading back to 221B, to home.

John realized that this was the first time he'd punched someone since Sherlock had di- left. His mouth quirked up at the thought. Sherlock certainly did affect him, in ways he didn't (and didn't want to) understand.

* * *

The next day, they met again. John moved back in. There was a bit of unresolved tension, of awkwardness, in the air, but John attributed it to the three year gap in their relationship. That, and the bright bruise blossoming on Sherlock's face.

John figured it would go away with time.

That had been three months ago.

* * *

John woke up, not slowly, but not quite quickly either, savouring the warmth of his bed and the general feeling of content one gets after a good night's rest.

Then he frowned, remembering what waited downstairs.

What waited downstairs was Sherlock Holmes, and all the tension, anxiety, and feeling of walking on eggshells that came with living with him. And John, for the life of him, couldn't tell how it had gotten to be like that.

He missed the easy friendship he used to have with Sherlock- well, as easy as something with Sherlock could ever be. They had smiled, laughed, joked with each other. John had taken the edge off of Sherlock's boredom when it was at its worst, and Sherlock had provided John with a sense of companionship and home that he hadn't had since he was discharged.

John couldn't remember the last time they'd smiled, much less laughed.

He hated it.

_And so,_ John thought as he trudged downstairs, _another day begins. _

* * *

Sherlock was on his laptop when John came downstairs.

Once again, he hadn't slept, foregoing sleep in favour of doing vital research. His head perked up as he saw John trudge down the stairs.

"Morning," John said. Sherlock grunted in reply.

Sherlock may not have been the best when it came to understanding human relationships and emotions, but even he could tell John and his relationship had changed. Understandable, after three years of absense. But this, well... This was strange. Different.

Both men thought that they were sick of the jagged edge to their friendship, the constant sense of dancing around and over the shattered remains of what used to be between them.

* * *

John sat down and enjoyed his tea, trying not to let the silence of the flat spoil his mood.

It didn't work.

John didn't know what he would give for Sherlock to play the violin again, to complain of boredom and the idiocy of the commonwealth, hell, even shoot the wall again. But he was sure he'd pay an awful lot.

_One more day,_ he told himself._ Just one more day. _

* * *

In the end, John didn't make it until the end of the day.

The silence of 221B was killing him. He couldn't take it anymore. Memories of the past were made aggravated by the painful silence of the flat and its inhabitants, and John needed to leave.

He'd received an offer for a job in Kent. And he planned on taking it.

"Sherlock," he said, looking at his still flatmate. Sherlock hadn't moved in about three hours, having said he was reorganizing his mind palace. Not that he did much differently these days.

"Sherlock," he said again, gently.

Sherlock looked up, sensing that something was wrong. John didn't usually talk to him like that. He looked at him, deduced him, then-

"You're leaving." It was said with the same amount of gravity and accusation as someone accusing their lover of cheating.

John looked at the look of hurt and confusion on Sherlock's face. "Yes," he said, looking down. He coughed slightly, a futile effort to relieve the tension in the room.

"You got a job offer."

"Yes." John didn't question how Sherlock knew this.

Sherlock remained silent, but John could hear the unasked questions flying across the room, stabbing him in the chest like daggers.

_Where?_

_How long until you leave? _

_Will we still see each other?_

_Why? _

_Why? _

_Why?_

John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

"I was going to leave tomorrow," he said, but the second the words were out of his mouth and he saw the hurt in Sherlock's eyes he knew this was unacceptable. "But I can stay until the job starts." Still not enough.

"I don't have to leave for two weeks."

Sherlock let out a slow exhalation. Then he spoke up. "This- job, you could still turn it down, correct?"

John knew where this was going. He knew what Sherlock was doing, what he was asking- if he could change whatever was wrong, would John stay?

_What the hell,_ John thought.

"Yes. I can cancel last minute if need be."

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, retreating back into his mind palace.

* * *

By the end of the day, Sherlock had a tentative plan. He had fourteen days. Two weeks.

He could get John to stay. He had to.

He didn't want to think of what would happen if he couldn't.

* * *

_**A/N: I'll try to update this at least once a week, until it's done. **_

_**Reviews wouldn't just be appreciated. They'd be kept and hoarded and treasured by me, and maybe slept on.**_

_**I swear, I am not secretly Smaug. Or any dragon of any sort, actually.**_

_**Love, Rainy**_


	2. Day 1

**_A/N: Holy cow, you guys. Nineteen follows. And eleven reviews. AFTER ONE CHAPTER. *faints*_**

**_Thank you for reading this, and being awesome. Because you are awesome._**

**_This is still dedicated to my Valentine. You know who you are. Love you. :)_**

**_In the meantime... Enjoy._**

* * *

_..."Guess you'd better keep your pants on _  
_There's no more tables left to dance on _  
_I used to carry you home _  
_I don't anymore _  
_Won't anymore _  
_What have they done to you now? _

_Old familiar _  
_Friends to fill your _  
_Heart with grief _  
_And agony _

_A little friendly conversation _  
_Character assassination _  
_I just don't care anymore and _  
_I don't wanna know _  
_I don't wanna know _  
_What have they done to you now?"_

_-Daniel Knox, "What Have They Done to You Now?"_

* * *

**DAY 1**

Sherlock and John had spent the rest of the day after John's announcement of his imminent departure much the same as they had in the past few months- in uncomfortable silence, doing nothing except watching what little remained of their friendship decay.

That night, when Sherlock went to bed, he went over his plan again. It wasn't a plan in the step-by-step, stage-by-stage sense- it was more of a plan in which he had a general idea of what needed to happen, and a deadline by which they needed to be accomplished.

He didn't sleep that night.

* * *

When John went to bed, he thought about what he was doing.

Sherlock is, was, his best friend. Even now, he was the first person that came to mind when he thought of a best friend.

But there reached a point when things became too damaged to he repaired, and relationships were no exception. When things reached that point, the best option was to just leave before things exploded.

Then why was he staying for two more weeks? Why didn't he just walk out the door tomorrow?

Because, he realized, he didn't want to leave Sherlock. And he knew that Sherlock was planning something to get him to stay.

And he hoped, with every fibre of his being, that he would succeed.

* * *

When John walked down the stairs the next morning, he fully expected Sherlock to be doing what he had doing for the past few months- on his computer, sitting silently.

He wasn't expecting Sherlock to be in the kitchen, hands deep in what appeared to be a pig's head.

John stared blankly at him for a few minutes, before Sherlock noticed his presence. "Morning," he offered, before returning to the pig's head.

"Sherlock," John said slowly.

"Hmm?"

"Why is there a pig's head in our kitchen?"

"Experiment."

"Ah." Of course. John went to go sit on the couch. Morning tea could wait.

He didn't realize until much later in the day that the pig's head was the first animal organ or part they'd had in the flat since Sherlock had come back.

* * *

John left a few hours later to get some groceries from Tesco's (because many things may have changed, but the fact they were eternally out of milk hadn't, and John wasn't sure how he felt about that), and when he returned, he returned to Sherlock find Sherlock arguing on the phone.

It only took John a moment to figure out who it was.

"No, Mycroft, I don't care where this place is, or how scientifically strange it is- if you lost one of your men there, then go after him yourself!"

John couldn't help but chuckle as he listened to Sherlock banter with Mycroft. He put the groceries away, still chuckling to himself as he went to go sit on the couch.

Sherlock hung up, half-flinging, half-setting down his phone in the table, letting out a puff of air, his way of letting the world know of his exasperation.

"Sorry about that."

John shrugged, not knowing what to say. And silence filled the flat once more.

The silence, John thought, was what was killing them. Before the silence that had filled the flat had been a healthy silence, the sort that falls after a good laugh, a filling meal, or simply the silent companionship of two men who meant the world to the other. Now it was unhealthy, festering, the kind that makes one want to speak up, say something, break the silence, but leaves them unable to do so.

He eventually turned on some telly just to add background noise.

It didn't make the silence between the two men any less deafening.

* * *

Later that night, as John went to bed, he wondered how he was going to make it through the next thirteen days.

Sure, Sherlock had acted a tad bit more like he had used to today. He'd had a body part, an experiment, and an argument with Mycroft, all things 221B had gone far too long without.

That didn't change the overall atmosphere of awkwardness and tension in the flat.

John turned over in his bed, thinking to himself, _thirteen more days. Only thirteen more days. _

* * *

Sherlock, when he went to bed that night, contemplated what had gone wrong.

His attempt to restore a bit of normality, more like what they had been used to before, apparently hadn't gone remiss- but overall, his efforts had meant little to nothing. The day had still ended in silence, and John was still leaving in fourt- no, now thirteen days.

Sherlock rolled over as he tried to think of something to help get John to stay.

As the gentle hold of sleep embraced him, he tried not to imagine what a life without John would mean.

* * *

_**A/N: Hopefully another chapter will be up before the end of the next weekend. *crosses fingers***_

_**Kudos to those who catch the shameless WtNV reference.**_

_**You have discovered my secret. I am a dragon (who can operate a computer remarkably well, considering the talons). And reviews are my treasure. Help me hoard my treasure, and I may spare your village. Possibly. **_

_**If that doesn't motivate you to review, I don't know what will. **_

_**Love, Rainy**_


	3. Day 2

_**A/N: Hello, readers.**_

_**As always, this is dedicated to my Valentine. Love you, sweetie, and you make me feel loved even on the days when all I want to do is go curl up in a corner and cry.**_

_**Thank you.**_

* * *

_"In many ways, they'll miss the good old days_  
_Someday, someday_  
_Yeah, it hurts to say, but I want you to stay_  
_Sometimes, sometimes_

_When we was young, oh man, did we have fun_  
_Always, always_  
_Promises, they break before they're made_  
_Sometimes, sometimes_

_Oh, my ex says I'm lacking in depth_  
_I will do my best_  
_You say you wanna stay by my side_  
_Darlin', your head's not right_  
_See, alone we stand, together we fall apart_  
_Yeah, I think I'll be alright_  
_I'm working so I won't have to try so hard_  
_Tables, they turn sometimes_

_Oh, someday..._

_No, I ain't wastin' no more time"_

_-The Strokes, "Someday"_

* * *

**DAY 2**

_Shouts. Gunfire. Explosions. Blood._

_"Goodbye, John."_

John flew up out of bed.

"Sherlock," he breathed. Closed his eyes. Not real. Not. Real.

_Take a deep breath, hold it in. Let it out, slowly, though your nose. Breathe. Listen to your heartbeat. _

_Float away, let everything go. Focus on your breathing and your heartbeat, and nothing else. _

John supposed he had been a fool to assume the nightmares would go away when Sherlock returned.

The truth was, his nightmares had never gone away. He'd had them his whole life. As a child, he saw his family die in front of him. After med school, he saw those he loved flatlining in front of him. After Afghanistan, he saw visions of the hot desert sun, of blood and explosions and gunfire.

After the fall, he saw Sherlock fall in front of him. Every single night.

When he moved in with Sherlock, the first time, the nightmares had been dulled slightly. When he awoke, gasping, tearing the sheets off of himself so he wasn't so hot, he would hear the soft sounds of a violin below him, soothing him until he fell into a dreamless sleep. John wasn't sure how Sherlock did it, but nearly every time he awoke from a nightmare, the soft notes of his violin would be waiting for him, lulling him into a more peaceful state.

Then he'd left.

John's nightmares had struck back with a vengeance, no longer content to show him just images of the desert he had left behind. Now they showed him Sherlock falling, interspersed with images of dry heat and flailing limbs, and blood, blood, so much goddamn blood-

Then Sherlock returned.

And the nightmares stayed.

This time, there was no soft, sweet sounds of the violin waiting foe him when he awoke. The violin was off in a corner, gathering dust. So when he woke, he woke alone, and it took him a minute to remember that Sherlock was alive somewhere downstairs, and that he couldn't go see him if he wanted to, because things had changed so much that he could hardly stand to be in the same room as him.

John closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The images had vanished, but their aftereffects still remained.

He didn't know what would happen to the nightmares in twelve day's time, when he left.

He supposed they couldn't get any worse than they already were.

* * *

Sherlock was laying on the couch when he heard shuffling upstairs.

He listened for a few seconds. Gasping breaths, half-spoken words, almost-cries. The rustling of sheets as someone moved around, mixing with the gentle pattering of the rain outside.

John was having another nightmare.

Sherlock was torn. Once, a long time ago, he would have grabbed his violin and played the most soothing melody he could think of.

That had been three years ago.

Now, his violin sat in the corner, gathering dust, not having been played in over three years.

Three years. He exhaled. That was a long time. He didn't even want to think about how out of tune it would be, much less how out of practice he was.

He winced as the sounds suddenly stopped, after one last stifled gasp. He wanted to do something to help John. But he didn't know how his efforts would be received- hell, he didn't know what kind of effort to make.

So he listened to the sound of John's laboured breathing in the darkness, trying to calm himself down, and Sherlock sat and did nothing.

He closed his eyes and tried to block out the sound.

After a few minutes, the breathing quieted down again, and returned to a normal pattern. He wasn't asleep, then, but he had calmed down.

_Close your eyes. Listen to the rain. Let that become the only thing you can hear, the only thing you can focus on. Let the pattering take over every other thought, until all that's left is the rain. _

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered, so quietly even he wasn't sure he had said it.

Silence fell on 221B once more.

* * *

The next morning, it was still raining, and John felt like he hadn't gotten any sleep.

Well, that wasn't true. He knew he had gotten sleep, and he knew he felt like he had gotten sleep, because god knew he knew what no sleep felt like.

It just didn't feel like very restful sleep. Rather like a ten minute nap- nice, but not very restful in the long run.

He trodded down the stairs carefully, not wanting to wake Sherlock up, on the off-chance the man had gotten some sleep.

When he reached the sitting room, and subsequent kitchen, he noticed something was off.

First of all, Sherlock wasn't there. That was an issue. He wasn't in his room (John could see that very clearly through the open door), and he wasn't in the bathroom, and he most was certainly not in the kitchen or sitting room.

Frowning, he was contemplating this when he noticed the second irregularity.

There was a cup of tea waiting for him.

And it, very obviously, was not prepared by Mrs. Hudson. She had left for a three-day trip to her sister's yesterday.

Which left one conclusion. Sherlock had made him tea.

Sherlock. Had made him. Tea.

That had never happened before, at least not genuinely. But this time, John doubted this was one of Sherlock's experiments. If it was, he'd be somewhere nearby, recording the results in his mind palace, and on paper.

No, this was... Actually genuine.

John didn't know what to make of it.

He absent-mindedly picked it up and began to sip it as he contemplated.

What was this? Sherlock always had a reason, for everything. This was no exception.

Was it another attempt to get him to stay? _Possibly. _

Something else? _A stronger possibility, but even stronger when combined with the previous reason. _

An apology? _Why would he apologize? _

The John remembered his nightmare. Was it possible Sherlock had heard...?

And then he saw the time, and nearly jumped out of his skin. Damn, but he was late.

He hurriedly swallowed the last few drops of the (surprisingly good) tea, before setting the cup down and looking around for Sherlock. Still not finding him, he called out, "Thank you," to the seemingly vacant flat, before rushing out the door.

* * *

Sherlock was outside.

He heard and seen none of the exchange. He simply leaned up against the wall, letting the rain soak him, drip down him.

He closed his eyes and exhaled a puff of air, the freezing air turning it into a puff of smoke before vanishing.

He supposed he should have probably been cold, but he wasn't. Still, it was wisest he go in, unless he wished to catch hypothermia.

He turned around, walked back inside the building, only taking a moment to determine that no, there was no one in any of the buildings, that he was alone.

He sat still a moment and breathed, enjoying the feel of the damp on his skin.

He took another breath and began to slowly ascend the stairs, one goal in mind.

He had a violin to tune.

* * *

_**A/N: Hello again. I blame the maybe/sort-of/kind-of/a-little-bit late chapter on an unholy combination of schoolwork, Mock Trial, procrastination, a forever-uncooperative muse, near-emotional breakdowns, and pure, unabashed laziness.**_

_**Oh, and a migraine that took me out of commission for two days. That was particularly lovely.**_

_**On the upside, I got taken to the doctor's because of it, and they measured my height, and I am now officially taller than Benedict Cumberbatch (and still growing).**_

_**My life's work is complete.**_

_**I AM FIRE.**_

_**I AM DEATH.**_

_**Please review. ^~^**_

_**Love, Rainy**_


	4. An Unfortunate Announcement

_**Hey, guys. I'm really sorry to do this, but a lot of things have come up recently, most of which are of a personal nature. Things have gotten to the point where it's a struggle to even get out of bed in the morning, so I have to put this story on hiatus. I've already got about a third of the next chapter written, so hopefully this should be a short hiatus. My goal is to at least put one new chapter up during Spring Break, so, as I said, hopefully this will be short, but in case it isn't- I'm sorry. **_

_**On another, slightly happier note, I have gotten ideas for a few new stories, so when my life has finally decided to stop hitting me in the face, you'll have those to look forward to. **_

_**Lastly, I'd like to say thank you. Thank you to everyone who has favorited/followed/reviewed this story. I am really, truly sorry to do this to you, and I hope you can find it within yourselves to forgive me. And thank you to the few people I've been talking with to help me through this (you know who you are)- your support means the world to me, and I honestly don't know where Id be without you. Or, actually, I do know, and it wouldn't be here. So thank you for that. For helping to keep me alive. **_

_**Here's to hoping you'll hear from me soon. I love you all. **_

_**Love, Rainy**_


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